


The Dangerous World

by heartofstanding



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Death, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Self-Esteem Issues, Unhappy Ending, Unhealthy Relationships, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 00:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17797922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: [1920-1942] Hal and Mitchell meet in the Good Old Days, kill people, fuck and generally make mistakes.





	1. into the dangerous world i leapt [1920]

**Author's Note:**

> These were all written in 2014. I think they can be read as OOC, depending on your reading of Mitchell and Hal's pasts.

Mitchell's been left on his own again. This isn't new – Herrick always does this. He talks in circles and riddles and promises, but it's all talk. He never comes through. Mitchell's supposed to be with other _liabilities_ , with Seth and that lot, doing all the hard work so that Herrick can reap the benefits, can claim that when the Old Ones came, he hosted them well.

Only, Mitchell left the old manor, rotting but apparently still elegant enough for the Old Ones, and headed for the encroaching woods, this never-ending stretch of shadows and vibrant greens. The woods are deep and cool, the ground moist underfoot and Mitchell wonders if he should just keep walking until he's left Herrick behind again. There's a stillness, a quietness in these woods that Mitchell hasn't felt for a long time – since before he left Ireland, before he knew the taste of death. _I don't get to be saved_ , he thinks, and kicks at a half-rotten branch, feeling some kind of satisfaction as it falls apart beneath his foot.

He walks for as long as he can, until the manor is lost from view, until he cannot smell the smoke of its fires (they have to drive for miles to find dry wood), until he finds a small creek, the water clean and fast-running, colder than the blood in his veins. He swears and curses as he tries to catch the water in his hands, the coldness of it shocking against bare fingers.

There's a rock nearby that's not wet and he perches on it, coldness leeching through the material of his trousers, seeping into his skin and muscles and bones. He doesn't know if he's running away yet, not that it matters – Herrick always finds him, always finds some way to drag him back to his, Herrick's, side. He torments himself with this wished-for freedom, the force of his longing frightening. He has not—

_(Heel, dog. Remember your place. Lie down at the feet of your master, show him your belly. Kiss his hand when he gives it to you. Take the off-casts he gives you with gratitude. Remember he made you. Remember he saved you from Death. Kneel for him once again. Remember what you are. Dog.)_

It does not matter. Herrick will come for him, will care for him, clean up his messes with long-suffering patience. And when Mitchell has proved himself, Herrick will crown him, will teach him the things he doesn't know, will leave him a rich inheritance.

But that does not mean he should go back just _yet_. It's not like he'll be missed and if Herrick's worried – well, he might take the time to give Mitchell a new speech. And the quiet is good, it's different, something peaceful in it. He gets up, drinks a bit more of the water – it doesn't get any less cold – and goes on, goes deeper into the woods.

He stops in something that might pass for a clearing when his feet tire, when his breath comes too short. He traces the raindrops on the bracken with the tip of his tongue and rests against a damp tree trunk, leaning his head back and staring up at the sky, the patches of blue-streaked grey seen between the enveloping branches.

'He's grooming you, you know,' says a voice, and Mitchell jumps, twisting to see who it belongs to. There's laughter and another vampire – young with old eyes – steps out from the undergrowth. Mitchell vaguely recognises him from the one time he saw the Old Ones.

'Hal,' says the vampire, 'Or Lord Harry. Whatever you want.'

'Mitchell.'

'I know who you are,' Hal says and laughs again. Mitchell doesn't like it. He clenches his jaw and refuses to look away as Hal moves closer. He smiles. 'You are precious, aren't you? Full of defiance. Like you could rip my heart out with your bare hands. I'd like to see you try.'

Mitchell shrugs and says nothing. Part of him – the part of him that heard only too well Herrick's briefings about the Old Ones – wants to run. But he knows he wouldn't get far and there's another part of him that wants to meet Hal's refined barbarity with brute strength and an iron will. He can't win, but surely there's respect to be earned in the attempt.

They say nothing for a very long time. The minutes stretch on and on and neither of them backs down.

Eventually, Hal laughs, again, and looks away and Mitchell's breath comes easier. It's clear, though, Hal is conceding because he wants to, not because he'll lose. Mitchell licks his lips.

'He was talking to me about heirs. I think he wants me to—'

'Do you really believe that?'

No. _(Dog.)_ He is nothing more than a loyal soldier. A useful tool to be utilised and then set aside until he was needed again. _(Kneel.)_ A toy Herrick has broken and manipulated until he got what he wanted. _(Bitch.)_ All the words he has whispered to himself in the dark and bitter hours are true.

He can't admit any of it out loud.

'No one talks about _your_ maker. Some say that it's the big boss himself.'

He wants a cigarette but he lost his lighter two days ago.

'Here,' Hal says and holds out a lighter. Mitchell takes it and busies himself with his cigarette, 'No one talks about my maker because when he had taught me all he wished for me to know, I asked him if there was anything else I should know. When he said no, I killed him.'

Mitchell's startled into silence, bites his lip until he tastes the (cold) blood. He closes his eyes, then lifts the cigarette to his mouth and breathes in the warm smoke.

'Is that advice on how to handle Herrick?'

Hal laughs. 'If you want. I have another proposition. I am leaving for Vienna at the end of the week. You should come.'

Mitchell chokes, coughs and splutters. There's a burning down his breastbone and across his ribs. He quickly tries to pull himself together and pretends to be studying Hal's lighter to buy time. It's silver and engraved with Hal's initials, expensive. Mitchell takes a breath. He can taste freedom on his tongue. It hurts.

'What do you want from me?'

Hal only smiles.


	2. idle talk [1922]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell and Herrick meet again, forcing Mitchell to reassess his choices.

He's at a party that Hal refuses to go to, and it's a bit tiresome, really, how all there is to being a vampire is killing, avoiding religion and the parties. But Herrick's there and he's laughing at something, glass of champagne held in his hand, and he keeps catching Mitchell's eye and smirking.

When the song's over, someone changing the record, Herrick excuses himself, crosses to the room and Mitchell looks for an exit that doesn't seem to exist.

'Ah,' Herrick says, smiles, 'Flying solo tonight, are we? Or have you and Lord Harry parted company?'

Mitchell grits his teeth, tries to move a step back. 'He didn't want to come.' He deliberately turns his eyes away, moving them over the crowd and taking note of the sameness of the gathering. 'Now that I'm here, I can see his point.'

There's another smile that crosses Herrick's face, one that Mitchell only sees out the corner of his eye, half-blurred, and Herrick presses his hand against Mitchell's arm, touch light but unmoving. Mitchell thinks about Herrick, about being Herrick's dog (and he knows that's what they call him, behind his back, _Herrick's little attack dog_ , even though they've parted company).

'Some of them are starting to wonder. No.' Herrick shrugs. 'It doesn't matter.'

'What?'

Herrick pulls him away, they're leaving the party, walking through double-doors into a night so enormous it could swallow them both and no one would ever know. The moon's not half-full, but close enough, and Mitchell remembers to yank his arm away from Herrick's cold hands.

' _What_.'

'Remember,' Herrick says, voice quiet, staring up at Mitchell with hard eyes, 'I made you. I gave you forever.'

Then he walks away and the shame of it all burns so very bright in Mitchell's stomach.

+

He paces these restless streets, trying to think of things. Go back, go home – not the motel room, not the house they rent for a week because it seems like a good idea, but _home_ , the place he's avoided for years. But he can't bear it, going home like this. He remembers the lake, the taste of its clear water, nothing cleaner in the world. He thinks of the rotting manor, the deep, damp woods there, the weight of the silver lighter in his hands, the weight of Hal's eyes on him.

In the darkness, anything can seem like a light, even the monsters hiding in the blackest shadows. He chose Herrick over death, not that'd anyone _would_ blame him for that, not after seeing the things he saw. And when Hal offered him something like freedom, he chose that over Herrick. The thing is, he's not sure he's ever made the right choice.

He wants to go out in the woods again, run as fast as he can until he outruns the world and everything in it, but that's not possible. And Hal's not like Herrick, not interested in letting him go to teach him a lesson about how much he needs Herrick.

+

Mitchell sags into the swing, watching the city in the dark, the twinkling lights trying to force their way through. A dog barks in the distance, followed by another, and Mitchell feels like joining them. Most of the time, he thinks he's barking, but at least he has it on good authority that he's pretty when he is. _Dog_. He raises his hands to his face as if to hide it, then changes his mind.

That's what he is, isn't he?

 _Dog._  
  
He knows what it's like to swallow mud and blood, to catch glimpse of what lies beyond, the men with sticks and rope, the lack of light and abundance of fear, to fuck and be fucked, he knows he's weak and hollow and he knows he doesn't really know anything at all, but maybe someday he will.

+

Hal finds him as the sky's lightening. He's not drunk enough for this, he's not even a tiny bit drunk. He closes his eyes as Hal pulls him up off the swing, muttering about how he'll scar someone for life if he stays where he is.

'What happened?' Hal asks, hands bracketing Mitchell's face, 'Why didn't you come home?'

'Herrick,' Mitchell says, bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood. 'Reminding where my place is.'

Hal looks at him, eyes narrowed. 'Your place is where you make it,' he says, and his hands drop from Mitchell's face to his hands, squeeze.

'He said that he made me. Gave me forever.'

'That doesn't mean you owe him anything.' Hal almost looks sad in this half light and Mitchell wishes he wouldn't, because there's no point to it all.

Hal's hands release his and he walks away, leaving Mitchell standing by the swing. On unsteady feet, he follows.

The walk home, back to the apartment they're renting for an indeterminate time, is slow, wearied by the watching of the night. By the time they're going up the stairs, Hal reaching for the keys, the sun's first rays are peaking over the edge of the horizon.

There is no going back, Mitchell thinks, but they have forever to force their way forward.


	3. rascal [1931]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell is sick or drugged or drunk or perhaps all three.

He falls, scrapes his hand across the rough ground, smells the blood in the air. His blood. Not anyone else's. Or maybe not his, but everyone he's ever drunk from. Still. Blood on his hand, on the pavement, the grazes ripping open his skin and pooling blood over pale flesh.

_Get up, you worthless—_

The words grate in ears, he scrambles on the pavement. Someone's laughing, someone's crying and someone's whimpering. One of them might be him. They all might be him. Someone's having sex down the alley, but it's not him. Hal's impatient, yanking at his shoulders but he just wants to lie down and sleep.

He doesn't care about the where. The ground's hard but it's there, it's not moving, not swearing in his ear and pulling at his arm so hard it hurts. He can just lie here, face pressed against the cold and dirty concrete, until the world stops. Even the thought of the sun (rising in: who-the-fuck-cares hours) doesn't bother him. Let him burn.

_For Christ's sake, Mitchell—_

And someone's pissing in the alley-way and he can hear that. He forces himself to his feet, reels and smashes his head into the corner of a bench-seat. The sound rings in his ears, makes him think about blood and hunger and he _wants to go home, wants to lie down and sleep_ , but someone's playing shit music somewhere and maybe if he feeds, the pain and confusion will stop.

Hal's next to him, holding him tight by the arm, and the year is 1931, but that doesn't matter nearly as much as Mitchell wants to throw up. So he does, bending over and vomiting blood onto the pavement he was lying on and Hal's hand is cold on his shoulder blade, but he just wants to go home.

+

Sometimes—

_You can stop now_ , says a voice in his ear, _you can stop now_.

He's on the sofa, a bowl of rice in one hand and a fork in the other. It's the only thing Hal can cook and he never thinks of getting anything to put with it. When they got home, Mitchell said, _I'm hungry, I want to eat something_ and Hal had laughed and said, _or someone_ and then he'd made the rice because it was the only thing in the house they could eat besides each other. It's 1931, they're in Paris and sometimes Mitchell does want to eat Hal, rip his dead heart out because Hal doesn't know how to be kind.

Most of the time.

Everything's a bloody bit of negotiation. If Hal's kind, it's because he's thinking of something else he wants, something Mitchell has to give him or forgive him for later. And Mitchell knows Hal's like this, but he falls for it every time.

Sometimes he doesn't think he's found freedom, he's just swapped Herrick for Hal. Sometimes it's worse and sometimes it's better.

And he's sitting on the sofa, eating plain rice and he's crying and his head hurts and he doesn't know what to do. Hal strokes his hair back from his face, someone says things like _love, for you, is terrifying. everyone wants to fuck you, own you, but no one will want to keep you. when you find someone that_ really _loves you – and i mean really loves you, not like i do – they'll put you down like a rabid dog._  
  
He's not sure whether that's Hal or a voice in his head, but he wants to be sick and he wants not to be so hungry and he wants to go to sleep.

+

Hal takes a shower, knows Mitchell is sick or drunk or drugged or all three. Hal grits his teeth, thinks of the party, the knowing gleam in Fergus' eyes. This is why he hates parties, why he hates situations that are not under his control. Mitchell's sick or just a _mad bastard_ , unhinged by blood and alcohol and probably something that was slipped into his drink.

He comes out from the shower, steps into the bedroom cast in a blue light from the neon lights outside. Mitchell's skin looks blue in such a light, he seems cold and pale and too alien. Hal crosses to the window, snaps the blind down in preparation from the morning, but the light still tints everything blue. The radio's on, playing some comedy show and Mitchell's head is cocked to one side, listening.

It reminds Hal of the dog and the gramophone and _his master's voice_. But Mitchell is laughing, shoulders shaking, all without making a sound. Sometimes it looks like he's crying.

He's sitting up on the bed, naked apart from his underpants and Hal feels sick too, sick with desire or pity. So he crosses the room, pushes Mitchell down flat, blankets Mitchell with his body. He's still wet, hair dripping water onto Mitchell's face, but neither of them care. He raises a hand and brushes it through Mitchell's hair, cropped short, and watches the way his lips curve into a smile or another silent laugh..

'You're okay,' Hal says and Mitchell's eyelashes flutter shut and something hard in Hal's chest softens. He leans down enough to press a kiss to the cold lips. 'You can sleep now.


	4. goods [1938]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three times they had sex, or close enough.

**1.**

It's cold, inside and out, the old house they've claimed as their own is empty, wind whistling through the broken window panes, and cut from the rest of the world. When the snow melts, they'll be gone before anyone discovers what they've done, the bodies packed into the cellar and the blood hastily wiped from the walls.

They lie in the main bedroom, swathe themselves in blankets and don't talk. They're done talking. It's odd, how the words get in and ruin things and silence can only repair them again. He thinks of the train down, watching the world from a window frosted over and wanting something he can't put a name to.

Hal is very beautiful, he knows how to stand and how to speak and how to look and Mitchell feels himself dragged along, taken to places where he doesn't belong. He tries to keep his mouth shut because his accent draws strange looks. Hal kisses with his eyes closed and fucks with his eyes open, and it feels good both ways.

There's a sense of cold that lingers, two dead bodies lying next to each other, and they can't make themselves warm, can't do anything but build a barrier between them and the ice outside. Mitchell doesn't know if it's any better with the blankets on or off, the windows shut or open.

He tries not to speak, tries to hold his breath and wait for the winter to pass, but Hal's hard, again, and they're in bed together. They both know how this goes. Blankets and clothes shoved at, pulled aside, until they're rutting on someone else's bed in someone else's house and there's part of him that wants to throw up at it, but a larger part revels in it, the hurt and shame that comes crawling up his spine.

**2.**

The door slams open, hard.

It's going to leave a mark.

Mitchell looks up from where he's standing by the bookcase, running fingers down the spines of red hardbacks he'll never read. Hal's standing in the doorway, chest heaving and for a moment, Mitchell feels fear breaking in the base of his spine, sending sparks everywhere. He considers teasing Hal – _hello darling, how was your evening?_ and all that – but he doesn't. The thing about Hal is that he rarely lets go, rarely shouts or gets into the mood, but it's always bad when he does.

'What the _fuck_ 's gotten into you?'

Hal's on him in moments, eyes flashing and the door left open. They've done this before, a few times, but it's always different. Mitchell's back slams into the bookcase and the glass ornaments rattle, but Hal doesn't care.

'I'm surprised you're not setting up a society for werewolves, you know?'

'What?' Mitchell yelps when Hal grabs him by the hair, pulls him close enough that he count Hal's eyelashes. 'I don't _care_ about the bloody wolves.'

Hal sneers and doesn't let go. His grip is starting to hurt. 'Then why not come, hmm? Why did you insist on staying away and _shaming_ me?

'Shaming you?' He starts to laugh, 'What are we, a fucking society couple? What am I, your fucking trophy wife?'

Hal throws him down on his knees and he laughs even harder, clutching at his belly and rolling to the floor. Hal dives down after him, grabs his hair again even when Mitchell gives him a knee to the balls and yanks himself free. Hal has ruthless hands and he knows how to use them, driving inside Mitchell, breaking him open.

He's terrified of what's inside him. The things inside him, things that fail him, rupturing and shattering, twisting him up into knots, they're far uglier than viscera. And Hal knows how to find these things, take them out and hold them up to the light, and then stitch the broken skin up again.

It doesn't last long, not until they're sweaty and naked on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, the fallen books and broken glass around them.

**3.**

The rising sun streams through the window, casting everything in a golden-pink light. Mitchell blinks at the harshness of it, the brightness so bright it hurts. He closes his eyes, turns away, presses his face to Hal's bare shoulder. He is tired, his body sore and bruised, and Hal is in no better state, but there's this feeling in his head, something deep and painful, half-remembered, this _longing_ —

It doesn't matter. 


	5. little beast [1942]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Mitchell’s attempts to go clean.

The blinds are down, but it's noon and the day is clear, no clouds, no smog, just the burning weight of the sun in the sky, which means that the light still streams in, but the wrong colour, the wrong density and everything is cast in a murky yellow light when it's not in the deep shadow. Hal sits in the old armchair and counts each second that the clock ticks away.

He feels bloated and messy, slightly queasy, waiting for the seconds to become minutes becoming hours becoming days becoming weeks until it's over. Until they undo the locks, unbolt the doors and step into the world again. Already, he feels the blood draining from his body, his insides turning empty and hungry, but it's just his imagination. This is all Mitchell's idea. Lock the doors and get clean. Hal didn't say no, but he didn't agree either.

Mitchell's lying naked on the bed, bathed in the yellow light and Hal thinks of going in and fucking him. Thinks that's the only thing that's going to get him through the weeks locked up in this dump, purging his body. But they'd tried to have sex last night and Mitchell had groaned and complained he was going to be sick and then he couldn't orgasm, working himself up into a fit of tears and tense muscles until he _was_ sick, vomiting over the side of the bed.

Hal's left him in the bed since, hasn't tried to feed him or get him to give up this mad dream. He thinks of going in and trying to do something. But quickly enough, he glances over at one of the packing boxes, still sealed with tape, and thinks of what lies inside, carefully nestled in its velvet box, the solid silver flask filled with blood.

+

It's late when Mitchell emerges, dressed in low-slung tracksuit pants and nothing else, and starts making toast and coffee in the small kitchen. The clatter and Mitchell swearing under his breath makes Hal's teeth clench. He thinks about the blood in the box again, but gets up and goes into the kitchen. Mitchell's hands are shaking and he keeps dropping the spoon and getting coffee granules everywhere. The bread's on the floor and the butter's lying on its side in the sink.

'Did you want any?' Mitchell says tiredly, staring up at the window. He's raised the blind and cool moonlight trickles in, and Mitchell's shivering, his skin pricked with gooseflesh.

'I want you to go and put some warm clothes on,' Hal says, 'I'll make you something to eat.'

'I can do this,' Mitchell hisses, and tries again to spoon coffee into his mug, but he can't even manage to get the spoon out of the jar before he's spilled it again. He closes his eyes tight.

Hal presses a hand against his shoulder, feels the muscles jump beneath his hand. 'I know,' he says, though it's obviously a lie and Mitchell's coffee tastes like shit on a good day. 'But let me.'

After a long moment, Mitchell nods and leaves. Hal wipes up the coffee and thinks very hard about blood while he makes toast.

+

Hal likes the way Mitchell moves, likes he knows nothing of shame or shyness or desire or loathing or beauty, even though he's wreathed in it. He's beautiful, with a good-heart and stained skin, and Hal thinks lots of things when he looks at him. Like he could drown in those eyes and that smile is the brightest thing in the world and he wants to take him home and rough him up and how he longs to fuck him until they're both really dead and how love seems to be written in the curve of his lips and on the tips of his fingers. Hal could be in love, or just lust, but they've been together for twenty years and there's still part of him that wants to push Mitchell hard against the wall and own him, and that's almost love, isn't it?

It's been twenty years. There's another war on, one they're not fighting in, but sometimes Mitchell looks like he wants to and that's what scares Hal, because he doesn't want anything to do with that war. Mitchell's the familiar whipping boy, a war and morgue in one body, and there's still some twist of good in him that Hal wants to kill or nurture. He hasn't decided yet. If Mitchell goes, he won't be Hal's anymore.

Which is why he's staring at the box again, the box with the flask inside of it, still sealed and Mitchell's in the other room, having a lie-down or maybe just quietly dying, and Hal wants a drink. He wants to pretend that he's not another bad man Mitchell is feeding himself, trying to find salvation in the smashed up glass in the gutter. He wants to pretend that Mitchell can forge the broken glass into a pair of wings and save himself.

But Hal's scared and he keeps thinking of the blood. He's getting hollow and empty and Mitchell's not getting better, small bursts of energy and bad humour while the shadows stain the wall. Mitchell deserves something better. A face like that, Hal thinks, should inspire loyalty and love, not this feeling of everything eating everything. This feeling that's making them both hollow and fragile. One blow and they're the shattered glass in the gutter and there's no coming back from that.

He should tell Mitchell about the blood, but he's just so hungry and he can't handle Mitchell's inevitable anger and hurt.

+

Mitchell's in the shower and he's crying and shouting while Hal pretends not to hear, his head thumping with the beginning of a headache. He cleans the kitchen sink with chemicals that make his fingers itch and burn and then he's crossing over to the packing box, ripping the tape off and sorting through it until he finds the velvet box with the flask, and then he drinks.

It tastes good, sweet but slightly stale, and the beginnings of his headache vanish and the sun's light seems blinding where it's creeping in through the cracks. Hal grits his teeth, covers his tracks and goes back to cleaning.

+

Starting is easy. It becomes easier, and then harder, Hal's desperate for the stolen moments alone, now Mitchell's over the worst. He leaves the bed and wanders around the house, his body making shadows on the walls, disturbing the dust illuminated by the filtered sunlight. Hal's eyes hurt and he pours his frustrations into Mitchell. He fucks him on every surface he can find, buries his teeth in Mitchell's jugular and says, _I need this_ and _I'm so sorry_ and Mitchell lets him, stroking his hair and murmuring words of comfort and understanding, even though he's sore and the wound on his neck won't scab over and heal.

He doesn't say, _I'm sorry, you should be enough_ because Mitchell might heart and guess what he means, taste the blood in his mouth and _I'm sorry it's not yours_. But he should say it, because it's true. Mitchell should be enough, but he's not.

+

Mitchell's pushing him off, laughing to show that there's no hard feelings but, 'You're heavy, darling.'

He says _darling_ with an accent Hal can't place, but is meant to find amusing, and stretches, rolling his body. Hal feels guilty at the blood on Mitchell's neck, his unstained lips and the bruises and bite-marks mapped across his body. Mitchell digs one heel into the mattress and fumbles on the bedside table for the packet of cigarette and a lighter.

'Are you okay?' He asks without thinking.

Mitchell nods without looking at him, clamps a cigarette between his teeth and flicks the lighter. There's no flame. Mitchell tries again, nothing. He shakes it and tries again, but it still doesn't work. He growls through clenched teeth and hurls it at the wall, reaching for the other lighter – Hal's, heavy and engraved silver, and this time it works. He inhales the smoke sharply and then exhales.

'A bit up and down,' he says.

Hal thinks of blood, but not Mitchell's, and he tries to kiss Mitchell, pressing rough bites across the jaw when Mitchell returns the cigarette to his mouth.

'Hey,' Mitchell says, nudging him gently with one elbow, 'Are you?'

'Never better,' Hal says and the lie tastes like bile on his tongue, makes him want to retch. Mitchell doesn't deserve this. He needs something good, needs to be loved the right way, and Hal doesn't like talking about _the right way_ , but he can't think of a better way to describe it.

The thing is, though, no one will ever be able to love Mitchell the right way.

It's easy to love him, but he doesn't know how to love himself. So he's hollow and you can pour your love in, but it never catches. It's terrifying and Hal sometimes hates it, doesn't want to go on like this, always filling Mitchell up with love. But he doesn't know how to stop it because the only things harder than living with this terror are not loving him and loving him the right way. But it's not only that, Mitchell loves too easily, giving it away with each smile or considering look, and it's so sweet that it's addictive, even if it's no substitute.

'I need to pee,' Mitchell says, and he hands Hal his unfinished cigarette and gets out of bed.

Hal's down the hall the moment the bathroom door shuts, going through the box until he finds the flask and raising it to his lips, swallowing. He'll run low soon and Mitchell's not ready to leave, to unlock the door, even though they're running out of everything but surfaces to fuck on.

He takes another swallow and chokes on it when he hears the toilet flush. Quickly, too quickly, he replaces everything, hides his tracks again, and races for the bed, licking his teeth to get rid of the last of the blood.

+

Mitchell's better, eyes clearer and moods kinder. He no longer shivers and has to wear six layers of clothing to ward off the chill of withdrawal. Sometimes, he walks around naked and Hal teases him over it, saying _have you no shame_ and Mitchell sometimes laughs and sometimes hits him and sometimes says _like you're complaining_ and waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Slowly – because Hal's neglected it, if he's honest, and because Mitchell's lazy – Mitchell works through unpacking the boxes and putting things away, hanging old prints and rambling about music as he slides his vinyl collection away. He talks about the songs they sang in the trenches, swallowing mud and tea and bone and biscuits, and shakes his head when Hal offers to find him recordings.

'Not the same,' he says, 'I don't think I could.'

He doesn't talk about unlocking the door and stepping out into the sunlight, but Hal thinks he might soon. Or Hal hopes he might, soon. It all means the one thing. The flask is half-empty and Hal can't get anymore locked in here.

+

Hal comes out of the shower hungry and immediately calls Mitchell for his. Mitchell doesn't reply, but sometimes he doesn't and Hal is so hungry that he pretends not to notice. He dresses and goes into the kitchen, looking for the packing box with his flask of blood. But it's not there and for the first time since the door's been locked, Hal feels panic rising rapidly in his breast-bone.

He needs it. Needs the blood. And Mitchell can't know, because that would destroy him more than Hal is. Hunger and panic flood through Hal's veins, screaming, and he has to think of things like quiet lakes and soft winds and the love written on the tips of Mitchell's fingers before he calms down enough.

He looks around the room, under things and in corners, even daring to snap up one of the blinds to flood the place with dazzling light, vanquishing the dark shadows and murky yellow light that reminds him of piss this morning.

The box isn't here.

'Mitchell?' he tries instead. Get him in the shower, find the box, put the flask somewhere safe.

'What?' Mitchell's voice comes from the spare room, no hint there's anything wrong in it. Hal makes a run for it.

'Hey,' he says, coming to the doorway, trying to sound casual, not panicked, 'Have you seen the—'

Mitchell looks up at him from the bed, the box between his knees and the flask in his hands.

'Oh,' Hal says, his breath suddenly going on him, his voice dulling.

Mitchell's eyes narrow. 'What?'

'Give me that,' Hal says, and his voice sounds cold and Mitchell looks at him in shock or surprise or hurt, and Hal steps forward, reaching for the flask.

'Why? Don't you trust me with it?' Mitchell gives the flask a little shake and Hal sees now the lid's loose, he must have been in a hurry the last time, almost been caught out, and panic thrums through him, his body growing tighter and his breath coming hard.

'Hal?' Mitchell sounds concerned, and he glances at the flask again, his eyes taking it in, holding it under the microscope of his eyes, and there's blood around the neck, not a lot, but Hal knows Mitchell's seen it by the way his eyes widen, his pupils dilating like split ink and Hal makes a grab for the flask just as Mitchell pulls back and it ends up on the floor, blood spilling over the dirty floorboards.

'Oh,' Hal says, again, and he might try to be innocent, pretend it's just animal blood for when he's desperate, except the blood reeks of humanity and Mitchell can smell it too, eyes flickering black and then clearing.

Mitchell's face isn't anything, really. It isn't a mask of hurt or hunger or rage and somehow that makes Hal's heart ache, the pain rending his ventricles apart and the blood inside of him is all dead and it's not enough, but Mitchell isn't enough either. It shouldn't have been an either/or choice, but Mitchell's face reminds him that it _was_ and Hal tried to build his life on the assurances of both choices and now it's falling apart, one of the foundation stones in a fit of rebellion and departure.

'Mitchell,' Hal says, 'Say something.'

Mitchell shakes his head. 'What could you possibly want me to say?'

Everything, Hal thinks, look let's just forget this, it isn't us, we weren't made to be without blood. But he doesn't say it loud.

'Look what you've done,' he says, instead, 'Couldn't keep your nose out of my business.'

'Fuck you,' Mitchell is voice as he gets to his feet. He's taller than Hal – not by a lot, but enough – and when his face twists like that, it's easy to forget all the sweetness in him and remember how very dangerous he is and believe Herrick's claim of the black heart. 'I wasn't the one— it's not like I—' He takes a deep breath and snarls, ' _Fuck you._ It's not like I dropped it on purpose or was snooping around. Jesus Christ, I was unpacking the box with _our_ things in it and it was just there.'

Hal doesn't know what to do with that, knows that the truth won't work and knows that a lie won't work and going on the attack hasn't worked. He stands there in silence, blood at his feet and Mitchell won't stop looking at him with those eyes and it's not enough.

'Why.' It's not a question or demand. Mitchell speaks it like a line in the script. He has to ask why and so he does and lets nothing else escape from his mouth.

'You know why.'

Mitchell laughs, the sound dark and almost hysterical. He runs his hands through his hair and looks down at the blood on the floor. 'I _know_ why? Like I've got a stash of blood hidden in the drawer with my undies that I'm not telling you about too?'

'I was weak. I couldn't be like you, to give it up and let the memories – let the pain take over.'

'Oh, so this is my fault, for being strong? First time I've ever been called that.' Mitchell snorts and looks at the wall, studies it so intently Hal's surprised that he doesn't bore a hole through it or set it on fire. 'I didn't ask you to do this.'

'You wanted me too.'

'Oh for fuck's sake!' Mitchell snatches the flask off the floor and with one sure movement, lobs it straight at Hal's face. Hal ducks and it goes spiralling into the wall, spilling yet more blood. 'You going to keep blaming me? _I didn't ask you to do this_ , you _said_ you wanted to do this.'

'I know,' Hal says, and his voice is so, so quiet he's surprised that Mitchell seems to hear him, snorting and looking towards the window.

'Christ, and I let you—' Mitchell shakes his head. 'Jesus Christ, Hal. I felt _sorry_ for you.' He goes quiet and bites on his thumbnail and Hal wishes he could take it all back, the promise to get the clean, the house, the flask full of blood and Mitchell finding it. But he can't, and he's not sure what he would have done differently.

After a long silence in which Hal says nothing and wishes things were different, but not sure how, and Mitchell keeps his eyes on the floor, away from the pools of blood, Mitchell sighs heavily.

'How long?'

'What?'

'How long since you started drinking from it?'

It only briefly occurs to Hal to lie: _what, no, I haven't, not at all_. Honesty is the only thing that might save the situation.

'Since the second day.'

'Jesus Christ, Hal.' Mitchell explodes with a sigh and falls back onto the bed. He looks pale and sickly again and unthinkingly, Hal reaches out for him, only to have his hands roughly pushed away. ' _Don't_ touch me.'

Hal nods dumbly, and he thinks about the idea of Mitchell leaving and he feels almost sick with the terror of losing him. But he's already lost him, hasn't he? Since the second day.  
'Why didn't you tell me?' Mitchell won't look at him, and that hurts, but Hal deserves it, he supposes.

'I was weak. I didn't want you to see how weak I was. I was scared you wouldn't want me when you saw. And you, you needed me to be strong, you were so sick the first few days.'

'Stop putting this on me,' Mitchell snaps, 'You think that helps you? Stop _lying_.'

'I'm not,' Hal protests, but he thinks that maybe he is, and not just to Mitchell, to himself as well, and he doesn't want to think about that.

'You didn't do this because you wanted to be strong for me or you were scared I wouldn't want you when I knew. You did this because you wanted to. You didn't want to be clean, you wanted things to stay the same and—' Mitchell gets to his feet, slowly, 'You know what? I don't care anymore.'

+

Mitchell is packing. Throwing things in suitcases, into boxes that he tapes shut and his back is one angry line and even now, Hal thinks he's beautiful, wants to take him by the hips and throw him down on whatever flat surface is closest and fuck him. But his eyes and the harsh lines of his lips read _fuck off_ every time Hal comes close enough to touch him.

'I can't do this on my own,' Hal tries.

'You don't want to do this at all.' Mitchell doesn't even bother to look at him, pulling shirts off hangers and screwing them up in tight balls to shove in a suitcase already half-full.

'Don't leave.'

'Oh piss off.'

+

The door keys are in a locked desk drawer, the key for that taped inside the toilet cistern. Mitchell doesn't bother getting it, just breaks the lock on the drawer and grabs the keys out, cramming them into the keyhole. Hal doesn't dare reproach him, doesn't say _we have paid a deposit, you know_ , and _I know you're angry, but that doesn't justify damaging the furniture_. Instead, he stares at the door to the spare bedroom, remembers the blood spilled over the floorboards. When Mitchell's gone, it'll still be there and when it's gone, he can make his own escape from this hell.

Mitchell pushes his hair back from his face, yanking the door open. He drags the boxes and bags down to the car, one by one, forcing them to fit. When he comes back for the last one, Hal stands up and takes his arm. Mitchell stares at the hand around his bicep like he'd dearly like to cut it off.

'You should stay,' Hal says, though he's without hope. 'Even if I can't go clean, I can still look after you. You can't do this on your own.'

'Maybe I won't,' Mitchell says softly, and hope pricks at Hal's heart. He raises a hand to brush it over the wound on Mitchell's neck, the two small punctures scabbed over and beginning to heal. Both hands go up to hold Mitchell's face.

He thinks, I _wish you had been enough for me. You should've been_. He kisses Mitchell again, tries to pour everything he can't say out loud into the kiss, like somehow Mitchell will understand everything with this kiss and forgive everything. But his lips remain stiff and closed in spite of Hal's best efforts and when he finally draws away, Mitchell looks vaguely disgusted.

'Mitchell?'

Mitchell shakes his head. 'Maybe I can't do this on my own. But I can't do this with you.'

'Oh.' Hal's hands fall and he steps back. It occurs to him that he might threaten Mitchell into staying, remind him who Hal is, the beast that lurks in his veins, but he didn't say anything as Mitchell backed away, picking up his last bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

The door shuts dully behind him and the car doors slam. The old engine roaring to life, and the car drives away, its sounds fading too quickly. Hal looks over his shoulder at the mess in the bedroom and then the closed door of the spare room.

'I'm sorry,' he says and it doesn't bring Mitchell back, doesn't bring forgiveness to his door and doesn't do anything at all.


End file.
